


Stealing Cars

by toyhto



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crack, M/M, Strangers to Lovers, Tumblr Prompt, idiots to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:54:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27635054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toyhto/pseuds/toyhto
Summary: In which Illya doesn't steal Napoleon's car but he certainly steals Napoleon's heart.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Comments: 25
Kudos: 163





	Stealing Cars

**Author's Note:**

> Another one about these dumbasses. Written for a prompt on [Daily AU](https://toyhto.tumblr.com/post/635066927781380096/tried-to-unlock-the-wrong-car-in-the-parking#notes) by [hcpelesshcney](https://hcpelesshcney.tumblr.com) that said _tried to unlock the wrong car in the parking garage AU_ but I realise now that I have not taken it very literally.
> 
> Also, [my tumblr](http://toyhto.tumblr.com).

Napoleon was walking back to his car when he saw someone trying to steal it.  
  
“Hey!” he called and walked a little faster. He would have run, if he hadn’t been carrying shopping bags in both hands. They were quite heavy. Christmas was coming, and he had promised his mother he would buy her something from Europe while he was here on a very secretive and important agent mission. _Something nice,_ his mother had said. _Something that reflects the lovely culture those Europeans have._ Napoleon had bought her everything that he could think of, just to be on the safe side. She was still a little angry at him for getting enlisted and shipped to the war and then staying in Europe afterwards and becoming a criminal and getting caught by the CIA and getting sent back to Europe.  
  
Napoleon blinked. He wasn’t supposed to be thinking about Christmas presents. He was supposed to be thinking about… the stranger who was trying to steal his car, probably. The stranger didn’t seem to be in hurry. He was standing next to the car, looking at Napoleon as Napoleon approached him between the rows of cars in the parking garage. He looked exactly like a man who might steal another man’s car in a broad daylight on a cloudy day. He was blond and annoyingly tall and had an intent stare, almost as if it was Napoleon who was doing something he shouldn’t have been doing. Well, that _was_ true, since Napoleon was shopping gifts for his mother while he should have been following an English agent who the CIA thought was having a fling with a KGB agent they wanted to catch. The problem was that the English agent only seemed interested in fixing cars, and Napoleon wasn’t interested in fixing cars, so he had got bored in a day.  
  
“Hello,” Napoleon said as he reached the stranger stealing his car. The man really was tall. Napoleon had to tilt his head back to look the man in the eyes, but god, those eyes were something to look at. He smiled politely but held onto his shopping bags, in case the man tried to steal them too. “Why are you trying to steal my car?”  
  
“It is not your car,” the man said. Oddly, he had a Russian accent.  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
“It is not your car,” the car thief with the Russian accent said very slowly, as if he thought Napoleon didn’t understand.  
  
“Of course it’s my car,” Napoleon said, looking the man in the eyes. He wished the CIA would have made him follow someone like this stranger. _That_ would have been interesting. But sadly, the CIA didn’t have any interest for tall Russian car thieves.  
  
“No, it is not,” the car thief said, beginning to look frustrated. Napoleon wondered what the man might try to do to him. Maybe the man would grab him by the hips and throw him against the next car, pressing his body against Napoleon’s until Napoleon couldn’t breathe. Or maybe the man would lift him up and…  
  
He blinked. He didn’t have the right trousers for this line of thought. He tried to stop smiling and cleared his throat. “Of course it’s my car,” he said, leaning a little closer to the car thief.  
  
“Are you _sure?_ ” the car thief asked. He sounded skeptical and Russian.  
  
“ _Yes_ ,” Napoleon said. Then he glanced at the car.  
  
It wasn’t his car.  
  
“I thought so,” the car thief said, sounding so smug and Russian that Napoleon wanted to hit him in the face. Or to be precise, he wanted to tug the man’s shirt up and his trousers down and get his own hand inside the man’s boxers.  
  
He bit his lip. Oh, shit, the erotic homosexual fantasies again. He hadn’t had one in two days. This was one of the reasons why he had stayed in Europe after the war: his mother had hoped he would marry the girl next door after he came back back to the States. He hadn’t known how to say ‘no’ to his mother, so he had become an international criminal instead.  
  
“I apologize,” he said to the car thief whom he wanted to press against the car that wasn’t his, but in an erotic way. “I was wrong.”  
  
“Maybe you need glasses,” the stranger said.  
  
“I don’t need glasses,” Napoleon said, staring at the man.  
  
“Right,” the man said, still sounding Russian. Napoleon hadn’t been aware he had a thing for that accent. He watched as the man took a key from his pocket, opened the side door of the car, and didn’t step in, perhaps because Napoleon was on the way.  
  
Napoleon looked around. It seemed that his car was, in fact, right there in the row after one blue Honda. He could take his shopping bags to the safe house, change into sweatpants and have a cup of coffee. Or he could try to find the English agent he was supposed to be following. He was pretty sure she was somewhere near, fixing cars.  
  
“What’re you doing today?” he asked the car thief.  
  
The man blinked. “What?”  
  
“Now,” Napoleon said, “what are you doing now? Because I think someone stole my car. Maybe you could give me a ride.”  
  
“A ride,” the stranger said slowly. He didn’t seem convinced.  
  
“Yes,” Napoleon said, smiling politely. Then he adjusted the front of his trousers. “A ride.”  
  
“What do you mean, a ride?” the stranger asked, glancing between Napoleon’s eyes and his crotch.  
  
“I mean,” Napoleon said slowly and took a deep breath. He had been told a few times that he wasn’t supposed to make sexual suggestions at strange men while he was working. His boss especially thought so. Apparently it was distracting him from his job.  
  
However, he was the most efficient agent in the CIA and perfectly able to both fuck a strange car thief and finish his mission perfectly.  
  
“I _mean_ ,” he said, “would you like to fuck me?”  
  
Someone gasped. It turned out there was a nuclear family behind his back, trying to steal his car. The children seemed a little shocked. He wondered if he ought to say something about his car but decided not to. He was kind of busy, and there were plenty of cars in the world but not many men who stared at him as angrily as the Russian stranger.  
  
“He is talking about poetry,” the stranger said to the nuclear family. “Russian poetry.”  
  
“No, I’m not,” Napoleon told the stranger.  
  
The nuclear family got into the car and drove away. Maybe it hadn’t been Napoleon’s car after all, but he couldn’t make himself check, because he kind of couldn’t stop staring at the Russian.  
  
“I suppose you realize this is a bad idea,” the Russian said.  
  
“Yes,” Napoleon said. That was a lie. He couldn’t think of a single reason why this wasn’t an awesome idea.  
  
“Fine,” the Russian said. “Get into the car.”  
  
  
**  
  
  
Two days later, Napoleon found out why the tall Russian man who hadn’t tried to steal Napoleon’s car had thought fucking would be a bad idea. By then, they had fucked three times, or seven, if you counted the hand jobs and the blow jobs and what had happened in the shower last night, even though Napoleon slightly regretted that, because now he had a huge bruise on his left hip. He wondered if they could fuck after the afternoon tea if he put enough pillows on the mattress. A dozen, maybe. He didn’t know where the tall Russian had got his pillows from, but they were hard as –  
  
“Cowboy,” the tall Russian said from the entry hallway. “Someone sent you a note.”  
  
“No one knows I’m here,” Napoleon said. But apparently there were other people besides him in the CIA who managed to do something sometimes, because the note was from his boss. The note said that Napoleon should stop fucking the KGB agent immediately and bring the man to the headquarters in any means necessary.  
  
Napoleon went to the kitchen, where the tall Russian man was sitting at the table, drinking tea and playing chess with himself. The man glanced at him. He looked at the man, then at the note in his hand, and then at the man again.  
  
“Who are you?” he asked.  
  
The tall Russian man looked at him again. “What?”  
  
“I was just wondering,” he said. “For no reason.”  
  
“You do not know who I am?”  
  
Napoleon opened his mouth and then closed it again. Then he smiled. He hadn’t been able to figure out yet whether the Russian was immune to his smile or not, but he was prepared try it anyway.  
  
Now, it seemed the smile wasn’t working.  
  
“What is wrong with you?” the Russian asked, sounding as if he was wondering what was wrong with Napoleon, which was odd. No one wondered that.  
  
“Nothing,” Napoleon said. “Do _you_ know who I am?”  
  
“Yes,” the Russian said. “Napoleon Solo, the most effective agent in the CIA.”  
  
Napoleon smiled. He supposed he had mentioned his name a couple of times during intimate moments. But surely even the CIA couldn’t blame him for slipping secrets while being bodily compromised.  
  
“Don’t you really know who I am?” the Russian asked. Maybe he was the prince of the Soviet Union or something.  
  
Napoleon was about to say that he didn’t know any Russian royalty, but he didn’t have time to, because the doorbell rang. The Russian prince glanced at him sharply, went to the door and came back with an envelope. He gave it to Napoleon. Inside the envelope, there was a file. In the file, there were pictures of a tall blond man who was very handsome. Napoleon stared at the pictures, then at the Russian prince, and then at the pictures again.  
  
“Why are you looking at me?” asked the Russian prince.  
  
“Are you Illya Kuryakin?” Napoleon asked.  
  
The Russian stared at him. He looked at the file again. Illya Kuryakin was the KGB agent Napoleon was supposed to find after he would find the British agent he had lost.  
  
“Hmm,” Napoleon said.  
  
  
**  
  
  
“Did you really not know who I am?” Illya asked.  
  
Napoleon tried to keep his mouth shut. It wasn’t going well.  
  
“I cannot believe that you just… got into a car with a strange man.” Illya took a better grip of Napoleon’s wrists. “Do you not know how… dangerous that is?”  
  
“I’m a –“  
  
“The most effective… agent in the CIA,” Illya said, “I know. You have told me that… multiple times.” He was starting to sound breathless, which was great, considering what they were currently doing. Even though Napoleon was the most effective agent in the CIA, even he had his limit, and he was about to reach it soon. “I cannot believe that… you let a stranger… fuck you.”  
  
Napoleon sighed. It sounded as if someone stepped on an air mattress, which was completely Illya’s fault, because that was the moment when Illya decided to show his dick back into Napoleon again. Although to be fair, Illya’s pace had been impressively regular from the beginning.  
  
“Letting a stranger fuck you is… dangerous,” Illya said, fucking him.  
  
Napoleon wanted to laugh. What could Illya have done to him, kill him? Then he thought about it again. He remembered reading something in Illya’s file about how efficient Illya was at killing people. But then again, it was too late to worry about that now, when Illya had a firm grip of both of his hands.  
  
“Can you…”  
  
“No,” Illya said.  
  
Napoleon bit his lip. “Peril –“  
  
“I thought…” Illya said. “That you did not want to… use my real name because you… realized how crazy it is to… fuck a KGB agent. But you just… did not know who… I was.”  
  
“If you come before me,” Napoleon said, “I will be… angry.”  
  
“You are an idiot”, Illya said. Napoleon would have disagreed, but Illya let go of his left wrist, grabbed his left thigh instead and lifted it up. Napoleon wrapped his leg around the small of Illya’s back. The angle with which Illya’s dick was hitting him now was quite pleasant. Illya’s hand on Napoleon’s dick was pleasant as well, even though he supposed Illya’s purpose at the moment was to stop him from coming too soon. But he could handle that. He was the most effective agent in the CIA, after all.  
  
He came soon after Illya. He was pretty sure Illya had planned that but he didn’t mind. Illya pulled out of him and settled next to him on the mattress. He kind of loved the way Illya always flushed after sex. That was the only time the man looked even a little distracted.  
  
“I know I’m not supposed to get into a car with strange men,” Napoleon said. “My boss has told me that many times. But I didn’t know you’re a KGB agent.”  
  
“Please, stop talking,” Illya said. “I become more nervous about your state of mind every time you say something.”  
  
“There’s nothing wrong with my state of mind.”  
  
Illya stared at him.  
  
“I thought you were a Russian prince,” he said.  
  
Illya stared at him harder. His dick twitched.  
  
“What happens now?” he asked.  
  
“I suppose you are going to lie there on your back for half an hour, then walk naked to the kitchen and demand that I make you tea.”  
  
“ _Ask nicely_. I’m going to ask you nicely if you might want to make me tea.”  
  
“You have been very nice,” Illya said, watching him.  
  
He smiled at Illya and reached to touch Illya’s hair. It was damp with sweat. Illya looked like he was barely tolerating Napoleon’s touch. But for two days and half days now, he had looked like he was barely tolerating Napoleon’s existence, and still he had taken every opportunity to fuck Napoleon. He had also insisted Napoleon would sleep in his bed. Napoleon wasn’t worried.  
  
“I meant,” Napoleon said, petting Illya’s hair, “what happens now when I know that you are a KGB agent?”  
  
Illya blinked. “What were your instructions?”  
  
“To bring you to the headquarters.”  
  
“Dead or alive?”  
  
“I think they would prefer you alive.”  
  
“My instructions,” Illya said, “were to bring you to Moscow piece by piece if necessary. My boss thinks you are an annoying capitalist.”  
  
“I think your boss is an annoying socialist,” Napoleon said. He had no idea who Illya’s boss was. He supposed that had been on the file, but he hadn’t finished reading it. “Have you been planning killing me?”  
  
“Not much,” Illya said. “I have been busy.”  
  
“Making me tea.”  
  
“Exactly.”  
  
“And banging me.”  
  
Illya sighed.  
  
“And kissing me.”  
  
“Only a few times.”  
  
“We’ve kissed twenty-nine times in the last fifty-three hours.”  
  
“Thirty-two,” Illya said. “Are you complaining?”  
  
“Of course not,” Napoleon said. “Illya?”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“I’m hungry.”  
  
Illya stared at him for a few seconds. “I will make you tea.”  
  
  
**  
  
  
The next day, Napoleon went back to the parking garage to get his car. He found out that it had been stolen. He called Illya from the telephone booth and Illya came to pick him up. They went back to Illya’s house, where Napoleon performed what he believed was one of the best blowjobs he had ever given. He was very happy with himself, and even more so later, when Illya pushed two fingers into his ass while reciting Russian poetry.  
  
“My boss wants me to stop having intimate relations with you,” Illya said after he supposedly ran out of Russian poetry.  
  
“My boss wants me to stop having intimate relations with you,” Napoleon said. He was glad Illya had said it first, because it was a long sentence and he was somewhat distracted.  
  
“I think we should do the right thing,” Illya said, “and go on a date.”  
  
“Mmmmmrgh,” Napoleon said, because Illya had just brushed his two fingers against a very specific spot inside him.  
  
“I will pick the time and the place,” Illya said. “You cannot be trusted with making decisions.”  
  
Napoleon closed his eyes. “I need you to fuck me now.”  
  
“You are still sore from the last time,” Illya said, sounding as if he disapproved.  
  
“Please.”  
  
“No.”  
  
Napoleon took a deep breath. “Fucking hell –“  
  
“I am going to finish you with my fingers,” Illya said, “gently, and then I am going to make you tea. And then I am going to decide where we go for our first date. Do you agree?”  
  
Napoleon bit his lip. He didn’t think he had much room for arguing, which was just fine, because he wasn’t going to. “Fine.”  
  
“Great,” Illya said, sounding smug and Russian. Napoleon wanted to kiss him on the mouth. “Now open your eyes and look at me.”  
  
  
**  
  
  
A few weeks later, Napoleon called his mother.  
  
“Hi, Mom,” he said on the phone. He had a feeling that Illya was listening. That was probably because they were both still in bed, he was lying on Illya, and Illya was staring at him and pinching him on the ass, but not in an erotic way. That had happened half an hour ago.  
  
“Hi, sweetie,” Napoleon’s mother said over the phone. “How’re you? How’s Europe? Are the Europeans being nice to you?”  
  
“Yes, they are,” Napoleon said. Everyone was nice to him, because everyone liked him. Also, only two people had tried to kill him this week. “Mom, I’ve got news.”  
  
“Are you coming home for Christmas?”  
  
He swallowed. “Not that kind of news. Mom, I’ve found a – “  
  
“Oh.“  
  
“A boyfriend.”  
  
“ _Oh._ ”  
  
Napoleon grabbed Illya’s wrist. It was a wasted effort, because Illya had two hands. “He’s lovely. He’s a…”  
  
“Don’t tell her that I’m a KGB agent,” Illya hissed at him.  
  
“He’s a KGB agent,” Napoleon said. He liked to be honest with his mother. Once in a year. Usually around Christmas. “And he’s tall and handsome and he has a Russian accent.”  
  
His mother sighed. “As long as you’re happy.”  
  
“I am,” he said. Illya was staring at him coldly. Illya often looked at him like that, but he didn’t mind. He had deduced that Illya had a soft heart and staring at Napoleon coldly was his way of trying to protect his heart, and also the rest of his internal organs, because Napoleon had once kneed him hard on the stomach while they had been trying to fuck on the sofa.  
  
“And are you going to come home for Christmas?” his mother asked. “You can bring him with you. I suppose he only speaks European, but I can learn.”  
  
“I’m not actually sure where Russia is,” Napoleon said. “I heard it's next to Finland but I also heard it's next to China. Anyway, we aren’t coming home for Christmas, Mom. I already told you. I can’t get the time off.”  
  
“Why not? It’s not as if you’re working for the CIA.” His mother paused. “Maybe you could bribe them?”  
  
“We already bribed our bosses to let us be together instead of having to kill each other.” That had gone well. Napoleon had talked to his boss for two hours about how happy he was with Illya and what kind of homoerotically erotic fantasies he was fulfilling with Illya, and then his boss had told him to fuck off. He wasn’t strictly speaking sure what Illya had done with his own boss, but whatever it had been, it had worked out perfectly, because Napoleon hadn’t heard of Illya’s boss ever since.  
  
Napoleon opened his mouth to tell his mother again how happy he was with Illya and how he wasn’t going to say anything about their sex life, which by the way was very homoerotic and he had found out that he rather liked that. But before he could say anything, Illya poked him in the ribs quite firmly. He looked at Illya, but Illya was staring at the window, so he glanced there at well. It seemed that the English agent who had a German accent and who loved fixing cars had just landed on the back yard with a parachute and a steering wheel.  
  
“I need to go now, Mom,” he said and turned to stare at Illya. He hoped Illya remembered where they had left their clothes, because he surely didn’t, and it seemed rude to greet a fellow agent while naked. “I love you.”  
  
“ _What?_ ” Illya asked.


End file.
